


though these veins are borrowed, this heart only beats for you.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Suicide of Side Character, Well it's sort of blood drinking, Werewolves and Upir Still Exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman isn't exactly sure how to label the vast, complicated thing that exists between himself and Peter.  What he does know is that Peter is the most important person in the world to him and when he hears that Peter's been sent in to try and talk a guy out of shooting himself in the head, he goes forty over the speed limit in order to get there before Peter gets hurt. </p><p>Or, in which Peter is a cop (and a werewolf) and Roman is a suicide negotiator (and an upir) and sometimes they fuck but mostly, they just help each other get by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	though these veins are borrowed, this heart only beats for you.

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** This piece contains a fairly large emphasis on a rather violent suicide. It also features some fairly disturbing incidents involving blood so if those things are squicks, I'd advise skipping over this one.
> 
> I have absolutely no idea where this idea came from. No idea at all. The image of Roman licking blood off of Peter's face just appeared in my head and well, a few hours later, here we are. 
> 
> Title comes from [Body Snatchers Forever](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzlrKbCn1PA) by Leathermouth. It's... it's quite the song, to say the least.

It's eight o'clock in the morning and Peter's been gone for an hour when Roman is awoken by the shrill sound of his cellphone beside his ear. It's a Saturday and his face is pressed into his pillow and he's pretty sure that there's dried blood crusted to his lips from the night before and answering his phone is really at the bottom of his list of priorities. But that's the problem with working alongside the police; your list of priorities don't really matter anymore and he curses his bad decisions before he accepts the call, roughly slamming his phone against his ear. 

“Godfrey,” he manages to groan, flicking his bangs out of his face.

"Godfrey, where the hell have you been?" It's an officer whose name isn't coming to him at the moment, but his voice is filled with urgency and in the background, Roman can hear absolute chaos, all overlapping voices and car horns and phones going off. "We've tried calling you twice."

"I was asleep," Roman mutters, rolling over onto his back. "What do you want?"

“You've gotta get down here, now. We tried to wait but we've got a guy 'bout ready to blow his brains out and the chief just sent in Rumancek.” 

The last word has barely come out of the officer's mouth before Roman is savagely ripping the sheets off of his body and springing out of his bed. The officer rattles off an address in his ear and then Roman's hanging up and dropping his phone on the floor because there's no time to deal with it, no time at all. He drags on his clothes from the night before, ignores the smear of blood that's stained (probably permanently) onto the collar of his blazer and flies out the door, just barely remembering to grab his ID on the way out because his veins are thrumming with danger and anxiousness that makes his skin crawl. When he pulls out of his driveway, he nearly hits a pedestrian and he flips her off before he slams his foot down onto the accelerator and starts disobeying every rule of the road because Peter has already been with the suicidal man for five minutes and Roman just knows that, if he doesn't get there soon, the man is going to blow his head off and that is not something he wants Peter to have to deal with. 

He's been working for the Hemlock Grove police department for four years, on a semi-casual basis; when they have someone who is trying to off themselves, they call him and he sits and talks to them, talks to them until they lower their razor blades or step away from the rooftop or toss their gun to the side. He knows it has something to do with his eyes (his roofie eyes, Peter calls them), something to do with the craving for blood he gets on a fairly regular basis but truthfully, Roman doesn't really know or care exactly how he can convince a person to not kill themselves, no matter how miserable and shitty their lives are. He just knows that he can and it keeps him occupied for a little bit and sometimes, if someone seems like a particular prick or if he's having a bad day, Roman murmurs _do it_ and watches as blood spurts out of their bodies. The police just chalk it up to bad luck, to a soul that was too tortured to survive. 

Roman's never told Peter about his deliberate failures but Roman thinks he knows anyways. 

While he's been working for the police department for four years, he's been sleeping with Peter Rumancek for half of that. It's a vast, nameless thing they have; it goes beyond sex but Roman doesn't really think it counts as love, namely because he doesn't have a fucking clue what love is actually supposed to feel like. What matters is that when bloodlust starts creeping through his veins, Peter lets him draw razors across his skin and lick up the blood that falls and in return, on the nights where Peter rips off his skin and turns into a wolf, Roman waits for him. He sits in Peter's tiny trailer and smokes cigarettes and watches shitty television until dawn comes and Peter comes out of the forest naked as the day he was born. 

It's a mutual understanding, it's a beneficial partnership between two freaks, it's _something_ and although Roman can't name it, he nonetheless knows that Peter is the most important person to him in the world so he goes forty over the speed limit until he reaches an apartment complex on the edge of downtown. It's a three-story building with little tiny balconies attached to each apartment and on the top floor, there's a man standing in front of the railing holding a massive handgun in his fingers. The guy is muscled and easily over six feet tall and his bare arms are littered in tattoos and Roman can barely see Peter standing behind him in the doorway, hands grasping the frame on either side. Roman is almost completely certain that the guy standing in the doorway is a veteran and sure, Peter is okay at convincing people to step down but he doesn't have roofie eyes and veterans almost always _need_ roofie eyes. He leaves the keys in his ignition, strides directly past the officer in charge and takes the stairs two at a time but he only makes it to the second floor before the sound of a shotgun blast echoes through the building. After that, he takes three stairs at once and when he reaches the open door of the apartment, he can smell gunpowder and blood and he immediately rushes to the balcony. 

The man's body is slumped against the railing, pistol still locked in his slowly stiffening fingers. There's a hole in the back of his head and while there is a fairly considerable amount of blood on his bald skull, most of it has hit Peter. It's splashed over his cheekbones and his eyelids and it's dripping from his too-long hair and the stubble on his face. There's a white fleck on his chin and when Roman peers at it, he's pretty sure that it's a chunk of the man's skull. Peter's eyes are locked on the gaping hole in the man's head and his right hand is starting to tremble. Roman doesn't even flinch at the sight of the blood; he's seen enough people cut their own wrists, he's watched Peter literally tear his own skin off whenever he turns and gore no longer has an effect on him but for Peter, it's different. Peter's just a cop, a (mostly) normal cop who's behind a desk most of the time and even if he does deal with his own eyes popping out every month, Roman supposes that feels different than having a stranger's warm blood splash upon your skin. 

“Peter?” The other cops are starting to storm into the apartment and Peter swallows once, his eyes starting to glaze over. “Peter, come on.” Roman wraps his fingers around Peter's wrist and pulls and for a moment, it's like pulling on a damn statue but finally, he moves and his eyes tear away from the gruesome sight. The guy who is in charge of the whole operation gives Roman a nod of permission and he nods back although truthfully, he could care less what the guy thinks. He pulls Peter towards the apartment's cramped bathroom, shoves him towards the tub and locks the door behind them. Peter sits down on the edge and the room is so small that Roman only has to take one step before he can kneel down and tilt Peter's head up with his fingers. 

“Peter...” He runs his thumb across Peter's chin and when he pulls the digit back, it's covered in blood and now that they're in such tight corners, now that they're locked off from the wider world, Roman can feel the familiar burn coursing its way up his throat. He's long given up on being disgusted by the urge and he starts wiping away the larger bits of brain matter and skull from Peter's face. The entire time, Peter just stares towards the floor, his fingers rapidly drumming off the plastic bathtub, his breathing slow and deep, like it gets right before he starts the shift. Once he's got the grosser bits flicked away, Roman brings his thumb up to his mouth and sucks off the crimson staining it. It only makes the burn in his throat increase tenfold so, holding Peter's head in his hands, he slowly drags the tip of his tongue over Peter's chin. The blood is a little acrid, tainted with the taste of gunpowder but that isn't enough to stop him and once he swallows once, he's done for. 

He licks up all the blood he can see, savoring every sour drop and by the time he reaches Peter's forehead, Peter has started leaning into his touch, growling softly, his fingers biting into Roman's shoulders. Once he's finished cleaning off his face, he runs his fingers through Peter's hair, using his nails to pull out the flakes of blood that have settled against his scalp and only once that's done does he allow himself to lick his own fingers clean. 

“Sheeit.” It's the first word Peter has said the entire time and he uses his thumbnail to scratch at the corner of Roman's lips. Flakes of dried blood fall to the floor and if he'd been any less satiated, Roman would have probably scooped up said flakes with his tongue. As it is, he chews on his nails instead, using his teeth to pry out every last bit he can reach. There's a knock at the door but Roman ignores it and stands up, bracing himself against the wall. Even diluted with gunpowder, the blood is making his head spin and he can't hold back the low moan that tumbles from his mouth. He has to close his eyes for just a moment to adapt and when he opens them again, he realizes that there's still blood splattered all over the front of Peter's uniform, slowly soaking into his dark shirt. Even though the thirst is quenched (for the moment), he still wants to sink back down onto his knees and try his best to suck it out of the fabric. 

“Rumancek? Are you alright in there?”

“I'll be out in a second!” Peter yells, a hint of the wolf present in his voice and he stands up, pushing his hair away from his face. Roman mirrors the action and drags his tongue over his molars because he can still taste iron in the back of his mouth. 

“Thanks,” Peter says and the fact that he doesn't look freaked out only serves to further Roman's idea that Peter is the closest thing he'll ever have to a soulmate. Roman nods in response and opens the door just in time to see the chief officer raising his fist to knock again. Peter has to go back to the station for a debriefing so Roman heads back to his house. He showers and because there's not really any point in getting dressed again, he sits at the kitchen table in his boxers and chainsmokes until the sun goes down. Peter lets himself in around ten and shucks his uniform off in the kitchen and there's so much blood dried on the front of it that his shirt has stiffened up and it cracks when he tears it off. He sits on the counter, stripped down to his boxers as well and steals Roman's cigarettes and scratches at the stubble on his face. 

"I might quit," he mutters once they've run out of smokes and he scratches at his face again, like he can still feel blood on it. 

"Sheeit," Roman says and although he's almost positive that Peter isn't going to follow through on his statement, he still stands up and kisses him until he's tasting blood again. This time, it's Peter's and Roman is pretty sure that the taste of Peter's blood has ruined him, pretty sure that _everything_ about Peter has ruined him and he growls _fuck you Rumancek_ against the side of Peter's throat.

"Fuck you too," he responds and at the same time, underneath the first layer of words, Roman hears _love you, asshole_. Peter's fingers scrabble across the counter top until they find the razor blade that Roman has stored with his salt and pepper shakers. Then there's blood trickling down his bicep and even though Roman had been sure his thirst was quenched for at least a few days, he drinks because Peter knows him better than he knows himself and maybe that's what it comes down to. It comes down to knowledge, to knowing Peter so intimately that he doesn't have to ask anymore, to knowing that he doesn't have to use his roofie eyes on Peter because Peter just _knows._

Maybe that's love. Somehow, Roman doesn't think so but he doesn't think boys like him are meant for love anyways and if the nameless thing he has with Peter is as good as it gets, well, he's pretty fucking content with it.


End file.
